Things I Learned at the SAP (it ain't the Firemen's Fund anymore) Open

You can park for free two blocks from the arena without fear, if you can navigate the byzantine San Jose streets and find the frigging place.

A few hundred geriatric types are scattered in the capacity 18000 seat pavillion, but no discounts for kids.

There were more ushers preventing upper deck ticket holders from moving down than there were people in the stands.

The silence was aggressive, interrupted only by Eric Clapton's "Forever Man" or the Violent Femmes' "Blister in the Sun" played during changeovers to produce the vibrant atmosphere tennis is so desperate for. Within the first two minutes, Lucas asked, "Why do we have to whisper?"

Continuing their just say no to kids campaign, only a few food stands were open and none catered to the stomach sizes of small children. That 7 dollar grilled dog was bigger than Lars' arm, and he looked embarrassed when he said he couldn't finish and then, "Am I going to get diarrhea?"

All six singles players hit two-handed backhands, exaggerated western forehands, and aside from one Bobby Reynolds, had names like Guillermo and Jurgen. Great hair, though.

No one chipped and charged. The days of Jeff Borowiak and Erik Van Dillon trading heavily sliced backhands before one sneaks in and dices a crosscourt drop volley are over. The black socks should have tipped me off. Tennis as thinking man's chess is over. Swing that graphite toothpick with all your might on every swing and hope for the best. Only the Fed transcends the power.

65% of those attending wore sweat suits. God, American fashion is appalling.

The number one consumer item was a giant green fuzzy tennis ball, presumably so MIDDLE-AGED MEN could get Bobby Reynolds' autograph on it.

Apparently, 8800 folks showed up for the night session to watch Pete Sampras play an exhibition. Americans love American stars- this passes for insight on a Tuesday morning. Shoot me.